Remains of the Day
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: Josh finds that he remembers too much, too often. JoshDonna


He remembered what it was like, and that meant everything. 

He'd never known panic, had never known anxiety until he had set foot on that plane, had been forced to change flights in London, all to get to Germany, just to see her. It was nothing like the night that Zoey had disappeared, nowhere near the level of frenzy, of upheaval he had felt when he had found that the President had been shot (awakening to find himself in a similar predicament).

Josh had never felt as completely lost, worried, nauseous as he had when he'd found out that Donna... Donna was in the car. And still, he remembered what he had felt as he saw the tickers running her name, he _remembered,_ dear God he could still feel the fear trickling through his veins, that he wouldn't make it there in time, that she would be gone before he could see her.

That meant everything.

It wasn't a memory that ebbed with time, rather it was a scene that replayed itself in his mind at least once a week, in nightmares, in daymares, in dark times. Just like Rosslyn, there were things that triggered the scene to come forth. A news ticker on C-Span that began with the letter D; simply seeing that letter was enough to violently throw him back into that moment. A particular facial tic from CJ would send him scurrying to the bathroom, relieving himself of breakfast or lunch or dinner.

Little things, certain things that people would say, that they may have said on that day, a year ago, a congenial "Hey, how are you?" or a "Are we ordering lunch?" would snap him back, slingshot him into the outer office, remind him of the blind rage he had felt at that moment, the overwhelming urge to throttle and torture everyone who had anything to do with anyone that had been involved in the bombing. Men, women, children, he wanted them all, to hurt them all, to make them feel what he was feeling.

He could recall, in those instances, the heavy weight of Leo's hand on his shoulder, the haunted looks that his friends cast his way, the understanding sparked in their eyes."If she dies," he wanted to say, to scream to anyone who would listen, "If she dies, I will..." and he had had nothing after that.

He would, he would what? Become completely blind with rage that he would harm another human being? Become so grieved that he wouldn't be able to function, that he would harm himself? It came to him then, that there was so much of his life, of the lives of others that depended on Donna living, that he wasn't quite sure _what_ would become of him, of anyone else, if she didn't make it.

And he could vividly, painfully recall just _exactly_ what being that hopelessly lost felt like.

The hardest of nights, times during which he couldn't get to sleep for fear he would awake and find her gone, was when he turned to running like a madman, imbibing any hard liquor that was in his cabinets in hope of finding himself incapable of feeling. Running produced endorphins that would keep him awake, spur him to sit and stare aimlessly at the television until it was time to suit up and head out. Drinking, on the other hand, offered him a few hours of reckless sleep, a few hours during which he could cry and throw things, smash glasses, look at the few photographs he kept and reminisce about the few good times he could recall under such an influence.

It was again, on one of those evenings, an evening of sleeplessness, of haunting thoughts that cause him to turn to a half-full (or was it half-empty?) bottle of Wild Turkey. A glass with just a finger, it took him an hour to finish. After that, it poured more freely, slid down his throat more willingly. When he was through, there was enough for one finger, but he left it in the bottle as he tossed on his winter coat, wrapped a scarf haphazardly around his neck and stumbling down the stairs.

Josh had to walk two blocks until he came to a street that was frequented enough in order to hail a cab. He was sure, once inside the sweltering taxi, that he recognized the driver, but then his head swam and his eyes began to tear and he began to sweat. Josh was thoroughly nauseous before they rounded the first corner, and even as he told the driver the address that he knew so well (but tended not to frequent) he had to swallow a wave of bile that threatened to make an appearance.

It was a few miles across town, just on the edge of the worse part of the District where she lived, just as the old money trickled out and the interns clutched to the old brownstones; she lived in a building with three other apartments, both families. She was the loner, on the second floor, sandwiched in between children and couples. He liked that he knew who her neighbors were, on the first floor, a gay couple (lobbyists) with adopted Chilean children, on the third an older couple who had their oldest in Georgetown and were trying desperately to keep him there (their youngest was a troublemaker and had been expelled from middle school at least once that Josh knew of). He liked that he knew who they were because he felt that when he was away and she was home alone, they were the type of people to keep an eye out.

When he paid the cabbie, he tumbled out on the sideway a little unceremoniously and just made it to the street grate, where he vomited the majority of the unprocessed whiskey. The ground was cold, the snow that had fallen in the morning still clinging to the curbside. Upon straightening himself, he moved up her steps and swiped a bit off the top of a bush, rinsing his mouth with it as it melted.

As he spit out the disgusting water, he jammed his finger at the button adjacent to #2 and stood back, swaying, waiting for her to answer. There was a sizzle and then a pop and then, "Uh, hello?"

Josh braced his hand on the cool wood of the door and leaned in to the speaker, "Hi Donnatella, it's me..." As if that was enough identification.

Another snap, sizzle, pop and then, "Come up."

A buzz and Josh was turning the handle, taking a breath, steadying himself before he mounted the stairs. Truth be told, he wasn't that tipsy anymore, after he'd emptied the scotch into the sewer. His head was still spinning, just a little, and his mouth was still dry but he wasn't drunk, certainly not. Halfway up the stairs he closed his eyes and swiped a tongue across his lips and skipped up the last few stairs.

At her door he paused and, knowing that she was about to unchain the door, smoothed his hair back and pulled his coat down. The muted light from the hallway made his eyes burn belatedly, but he didn't blink, he just stood and waited for the door to open.

There was a long scratch followed by dulled clicks and then the door was flung open, caught in the palm of Donna's hand. Hair frazzled, wearing a baggy pair of worn-blue flannel pants and a baggy sweatshirt she stood, a slit of yellow light slivered down her front. "Josh, what are you doing here?"

He took a step forward and she took a step back, opening the door and allowing him into the apartment. Immediately, his eyes screamed with the lack of light and Josh cringed, feeling his way along the wall until the hallway opened up into the living room. He turned on his heel when his feet felt the carpet beneath. "Hey."

"Hi," she returned, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Are you drunk?"

That was always what she asked him when he showed up at her place during the odd hours. With good reason, he supposed, since those were generally the few times he did tend to grace her doorstep.

Running a hand through his hair (perpetually unruly, it seemed) he nodded, just a fraction. "I may have been, an hour or so ago, but I actually-and I know you don't want to hear this-emptied the contents of my stomach into a sewer grate before I came up here, so yeah. Was, now I just have a raging headache." They stared at each other briefly, before Donna turned, wrapping her arms around her as she disappeared through the living room towards the back of the apartment.

Josh sank down to sit on the arm of the sofa and waited for her to return; when she did, her left hand was wrapped, closed tightly. "Ibuprofen?" her low voice offered, brows perked up at her hairline. Josh nodded and waited for her to return with water. An ice cold bottle was placed in his hand promptly and he thought he'd never needed anything so badly before. Cracking open the bottle, Josh brought it to his lips, drinking greedily after popping the pills, while Donna watched.

When he was through and had managed to screw the cap back on the bottle, Josh's body went limp and he flopped back onto the sofa; his legs were still dangling over the arm. "Oh, the room is spinning, this isn't good, this isn't-"

"I'll get a pot," Donna squeaked frantically. Not in annoyance. Like he would have expected.

Peeking an eye open, he watched as she reentered his line of vision. "I'll be okay."

"Yeah well, I don't want you being 'okay' all over my grandmother's rug, so aim for the pot."

She looked at him for a moment, and he tried to read her eyes. They were sad, tinged with regret, worried, slightly annoyed, all at once. And it was then that he realized just how well he knew Donna. Just how well; he knew her well enough to read her eyes, her stance, her motions, he knew how to search her words for underlying meaning and what it meant when her posture was slumped. He knew her, knew her better than he knew his mother, or the President or Sam.

Donna was jostling him, lifting his head to place it carefully in her lap. Josh masked his shock and instead decided to allow his eyes to slip closed. "You come here for a reason?" she asked as her fingers sifted through his curls. It felt wonderful, the careful pressure from her hands on his scalp. Josh was nearly purring.

He spoke before he could think about it, before he could realize that his defenses were down. "I started remembering again," he sighed.

"Remembering?" her voice was gentle, soothing.

Josh yawned and turned a bit, so his face was in her stomach. "What it was like to lose you."

Her hands stopped moving, spurring his eyes to snap open. "Josh, you never..." she began, but stopped just as easily as she had started. "I mean, you'll never... it's not..."

"I did," Josh mumbled, eyes heavy once more. "I did and I will, and I will..."

The silence in the room was deafening, oppressive, a whirlwind that stole his breath. He said nothing, she said nothing, but moved her hands over his head, adding to the drowsiness that had already managed to completely subdue him.

And then she spoke; and he finally knew what hope was, what it felt like.

"You won't lose me, Josh."

"How do you know that?"

"Because in case Iyou've/I forgotten, I've got plenty to remember too."


End file.
